Flight of the Renshai

by Mickey Reichert

  Kedrin’s voice seemed soft in comparison. “A good point well made. I concur and surrender to you both.” He addressed Saviar directly. “Perhaps another time?”

  Saviar liked that his grandfather could admit defeat with extraordinary grace. It was an important lesson his torke would never teach him. “I would like that very much, Grandpapa. One day very soon, it will happen.”

  Talamir awakened to a deep inner pain that seemed to stretch through his skin, and a throbbing headache. He rolled to his stomach. The biting cold of this new portion of the stone floor seeped through him. An odd, bitter taste filled his mouth. He forced himself to hands and knees, the movement telling him two things. First, he was unarmed; and, second, he had to vomit. He did so in a mu cousy pile, then recoiled from it, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve.

  “You’re up,” a voice purred behind him.

  Talamir whirled with a speed that stole his balance and sent him retching again. He vomited for a long time, unable to gain control of his heaving gut until well after the last watery contents of his stomach trickled onto the floor. Two more things entered his consciousness in that time: he lay in a barred cell, and the man who had addressed him was the same one who had whispered to him in the court. Again, the Shadow Leader wore the black swirl of garments, silver around his covered face.

  Talamir wanted to turn his back but worried about his self-control and balance. “You poisoned me, you ignoble bastard. You poisoned me.”

  “I didn’t poison you.”

  The composure of the response incited Talamir. “You did! You poisoned me.”

  “If I poisoned you, you would be dead.”

  Talamir sank to the floor again, taking care to miss the disgorged contents of his stomach. He clamped his hands to his head. “I wish I were dead.”

  “If you really mean it, Talamir, that can be arranged. You are under order of execution.”

  The words only angered the Renshai. At least, if the poison had finished him, he might have died in battle. He had had a chance to find Valhalla. Now, he would die a craven, a coward executed by a king who claimed to love his son but had chosen to torture him in the worst possible way. “You should have killed me in the courtroom. I could have died a—” He made the most vigorous hand gesture he dared. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “To the contrary, I understand completely.” The elite guardsman unwound the material from his face to reveal the familiar features of Weile Kahn. He bore a striking resemblance to Subikahn, more so than Tae, and Talamir found those features breathlessly handsome. Weile’s eyes were dark and depthless, his hair like midnight with patches of gray at the temples and gently distributed throughout. Though coarsened by maturity, his face bore no notable wrinkles. His stance completed the picture, commanding respect. “My grandson is Renshai. I know what it means to die in battle.”

  “Sire.”Though already on his hands and knees,Talamir attempted to stoop lower.

  Weile followed the movement, though slight. “None of that formal crap. I’m untitled by choice.” Though true, he had been king only seventeen years earlier, when he gave the crown to Tae and slipped into relative obscurity.

  “You told me you would help spare me.”

  “And I kept my promise.” Weile glared at Talamir with an intensity that cowed him, despite being Renshai. “You were on your honor not to bare steel in the court.”

  “But I had to—”

  “And I told you not to fight.” Weile’s expression became stonier, and Talamir found himself unable to talk, unwilling to further defend his actions. “You scarred two of the best men in the world, bodyguards I’ve trusted for over forty years. Men who would gladly give their lives for me and have forsaken all other pleasures, including those of women, to remain at my side when I need them.”

  Talamir lowered his head, suddenly awash with guilt for resorting to unnecessary violence. The remorse seemed wrong, out of place in the repertoire of a man trained lifelong to react to threats with a sword; yet it remained no less powerful and real. He could not understand why Weile’s words had such a profound effect upon him. Yet, as he sat in the deep and meaningful silence that followed Weile Kahn’s pronouncement, Talamir’s mind focused on a single phrase: “forsaken all other pleasures, including women.”Weile’s bodyguards, men feared and respected throughout the Eastern kingdom. Could those two be lovers? Only that, as well as a vast love for his grandson, might explain why Weile had taken a personal interest in Talamir’s situation.

  “If you want my help, you have to do as I tell you.”

  Talamir forced himself to raise his head. He could not quite manage his usual wary crouch, but he did clamber to his haunches without vomiting. “You can . . . you can still . . . lighten my sentence.”

  Weile blinked deliberately but otherwise did not change his expression. “Talamir, I believe I could have gotten you off just by talking to my son had you not compounded your simple offense with . . .” He added with significance, “. . . high treason.”

  Again, Talamir suffered the intense regret that had assailed him earlier. He understood its source better now; he had discarded honor and common sense. He had attacked his lover’s beloved father after vowing to himself that he never would. “I made a huge mistake.” He looked up at Weile, eyes welling with tears beyond his control. “I’m a Renshai torke, I’m supposed to shape young sinews and minds.Yet, when it came to saving myself and the one I love most in the world, I did everything wrong.”

  “Not everything.”

  Awash in anguish, Talamir barely heard. “Why didn’t you kill me in battle?” The prison cell blurred to bars and granite, an endless gray reeking of sweat, urine, and sickness.

  “Talamir, you went against your honor by baring steel in the court. But you proved yourself to me when you lied to protect Subikahn.”

  Talamir saw no virtue in that action. “I said I raped my lover. I claimed to have hurt the one person I never would. What if Subikahn comes to believe it?”

  Weile snorted. “I don’t even think Tae believes it.”

  Talamir jerked his head up and immediately wished he had not. His stomach protested emphatically.

  “I was testing you. I just wanted to know whether you would sacrifice yourself for Subikahn.” Weile spoke of such things without a trace of self-consciousness, as if they were chatting at the local tavern. “You’ve proved your worth.”

  “But at what price? I’m going to be tortured to death, and Subikahn . . . ?” Talamir scarcely dared to ask. He had avoided the question thus far, desperately worried to hear the answer. “Is he . . . ? Will he be . . . wholly spared?” A worse thought struck him. “He won’t have to . . . watch my execution, will he?” The very thought seemed worse than anything the guards of Stalmize could do to him.

  Weile Kahn closed his eyes, shook his head. He seemed slightly amused. “You’re not the only one who loves Subikahn. His father coddles him.”

  “Usually.” Now that he had broached the subject, Talamir had to know. “But this time?”

  “Banished till his twentieth birthday and charged with visiting every continent in the world.”

  Talamir’s eyes widened, no longer teary. “He doesn’t have a lick of street smarts. The world will eat him up.”

  “Which is why he needs a dedicated bodyguard.” Anticipating the argument, Weile raised a hand. “Not because he’s not a skilled swordsman, already far more so than his father. But because he lacks experience, wisdom.”

  Talamir knew exactly who Weile meant. “So . . . you can still . . . get me off?”

  “Not for high treason, Talamir.”

  The Renshai slumped. He had, apparently, misunderstood.

  “But I can help you escape.” Weile raised an arm to reveal a key dangling from his fingers. He unclipped his own sword and passed it through the bars.

  Despite the residual effects of the toxin, Talamir leaped for the offering. He pulled it through with the enthusiasm a starving beggar shows a fre
sh baked pie.

  “And wear this.” Weile stuffed his black robes and silver gauze through the bars. “I’ll help you put it on properly; my men will easily spot a fake. And make absolutely certain you leave it with one of us once you’re out. Otherwise, we will have no choice but to hunt you down ourselves.”

  Talamir clutched the sword like a lifeline, forcing himself to listen even as he studied the line of the blade through its sheath. He would not know its quality until he drew it but knew better than to do so with the king’s father standing so near, unarmed, and still in possession of the key. He owed Weile more than his life.

  “Don’t do anything stupid.” Weile separated that piece of advice from everything before and after.

  Talamir did not know whether to resent the implication or agree with it. Thus far, he had not conducted himself well, and Renshai were not known for their caution or strategy. Even in war, they fought without plan, their sole focus to win each individual battle or die fighting.

  “My men know and will not bother you unless you force their hands.” Weile added with intensity, “That will irritate me, and you don’t want me irritated.”

  Talamir believed it.

  “The regular guards, however, do not know. They’re good men, just doing their jobs. If you act as if you belong and walk right past them, you should get free without violence.” It was warning as much as information. “I gave you that sword because I know Renshai.You’re more secure and, in a strange way, safer with it. I would appreciate it, however, if you didn’t kill anyone in the employ of the king.”

  “I promise.”

  Weile raised a brow.

  “I mean it,” Talamir said. “I won’t bare steel, this time. Not unless there is no other option.”

  “And you will commit to attending my grandson until his return.”

  “Gladly.”

  “Even if your relationship fails.”

  Talamir could not imagine such a contingency. Nothing had ever felt so right to him. Nevertheless, he hesitated to show that he had appropriately considered the words. He was old enough to realize that no relationship of love was ever entered into to fail, yet they so often did. “Even should we become the bitterest of enemies, I will do as I have promised you. I will gladly lay down my life for Subikahn.”

  “See that you do, Talamir.” The words were simple, the threat implied. “See that you do.”

  CHAPTER 9

  One lie is enough to undo a man.

  —Queen Eudora of Pudar

  EXHAUSTION HOUNDED SAVIAR as he stumbled over the threshold to the practice courtyard set in the middle of the castle grounds. It had become familiar over the past few days, yet Saviar still marveled at its size and scope. Constructed for multiple uses: guards, members of the royal family, visiting dignitaries, and the Renshai who guarded the heirs, it seemed well suited to their many styles of combat.

  An enormous rack near the door held a variety of weapons, the like of which Saviar had never seen. Swords of myriad types alternated with axes, lances, and spears. Staves and hammers held their places, along with incomprehensible polearms that combined loops, scoops, and points with blades. Shields and helmets, sticks and bones, lumpy wooden-and-iron implements that seemed little better than clubs: everything had a place in the practice courtyard of Béarn. They all had one thing in common to Saviar’s mind; only the most desperate warrior would use them. The blade edges were notched, cracked, and blunted, the points worn down to bruising nubbins.

  The terrain also ran the gamut, mostly vast open space. In one area, someone had built a crude series of ceilingless rooms, including a spiral staircase, apparently as preparation for indoor battles. Another area, the one Saviar had thus far chosen, had sticks and stones strewn over it in random patterns, along with a tattered pack spewing rotten boots and clothing. The left boot sole had become a convincing nemesis, having already turned his ankle twice.

  For a change of pace, Saviar chose an open area, though many of his torke would have admonished him. “Tiredness is not an excuse for laziness,” Kyntiri often told them. “When you’re sick, shy of sleep, or injured is the best time to push yourself past any limits. Your enemies will not give you quarter for weakness, and the worst of them will target those most-vulnerable moments.” Driving the words from his mind, along with the accompanying guilt, Saviar drew his sword, parried an invisible blade, and cut for his nonexistent opponent all in the same smooth motion.

  Fatigue seemed to lift from Saviar’s body as he launched into a complicated svergelse. He spent hours performing sword maneuvers daily, yet he never tired of them. At times, he did not want to start; but, once he did, he always found that strange, soaring pinnacle of joy that his torke so often lauded. His sword dipped, cut, and wove through the air, the breeze of its motion cooling limbs swiftly bathed in sweat. His sword became an extension of his arm, moving swifter than the eye could follow.

  Saviar leaped and parried, thrust and slashed through an army of enemies, his pace never faltering and his mind never budging from his svergelse and imagined foes. He cut through a dozen, then a score, battling them in pairs and trios, midgets and giants, fast and slow. His defense was movement; Renshai relied on nothing else. Battle was life, was death, and everything between them.

  The door creaked open. Alert to movement, Saviar knew it at once, pausing in his lethal dance to gauge the intruder. In battle mode, his mind sought clues as to the intention of the other, cautious friend or lethal foe. He had wholly forgotten his location, the inner sanctum of Béarn, where no enemy could enter without first undergoing the scrutiny of an entire force of kingdom guards.

  The newcomer was a stranger, an adolescent male with pale, rugged features, blond braids, and alert, blue eyes. He wore an emerald-colored tunic of odd design, cut low in the back, and heavy woolen leggings. Leather, thick-soled sandals hugged his feet, the laces criss crossing up his britches to disappear beneath his skirting. A broadsword that looked too big for him swung at his side, and he clasped a huge, studded shield in his hand.

  Saviar caught himself staring. By coloring, the youngster could easily have passed for Renshai if not for his bulk and the shield. Blocking blows with anything but one’s own blade was considered cowardice by Renshai. Could this be a Northman?

  The newcomer met Saviar’s stare with a smile. “Hullo.” He spoke the Common Trading tongue with a heavy, musical accent. “My name is Verdondi Eriksson.”

  Saviar did the only polite thing. “Saviar.” He lowered his weapon. “Uh, Ra-khirsson.”

  “Uhlrrakirsson?” Verdondi’s eyes narrowed in clear confusion. “That sounds like a Northern name.”

  Saviar grinned at the misconception. “My father is Ra-khir, not Uhlrrakir. The “uh” part was just my incompetent stuttering.”

  Verdondi laughed, then his lids drooped further and his fair brow crinkled. “So, Ra-khir is a . . . an . . . Erythanian name?”

  Now it was Saviar’s turn to laugh. “Not exactly. His father named him Rawlin; his stepfather, Khirwith, called him Khirwithson and tried to lose the original name. As I understand it, my child-papa got it all blended together and the new mess stuck.”

  “So his stepfather would have had him being Khirwithson Khirwithsson?”

  “Apparently.” Saviar had never thought about it in detail. In Verdondi’s voice, though, the name sounded stupid, which seemed appropriate. Ra-khir rarely spoke of his stepfather; but, when he did, Khirwith came off clownish and dull. “Ra-khir even has a hyphen in the middle.”

  This time, they laughed together.

  Verdondi pulled at his leggings, bunched beneath the leather straps. “So, Saviar Rah-hyphen-khirsson. How about a spar?”

  Saviar accepted in a heartbeat. He had often longed to try his hand against a stranger, especially one his own age.

  Verdondi unsheathed his sword, laying it gently on the rack. He sifted through the Béarnian weapons, choosing a similar sword and cramming it into his emptied sheath. When Saviar made no s
imilar move, Verdondi eyed his opponent’s more slender sword, then picked one of similar size. He headed toward Saviar, offering the hilt. “Here.”

  Saviar accepted the inferior weapon, staring at the blunted edges, the notches, the broken tip. No Renshai would be caught dead on his pyre with such a pitiful excuse for a sword. “What’s this?”

  Verdondi stared. “Your practice weapon, of course. You didn’t think we were going to spar with live steel, did you? Someone might get hurt.”

  “Um.” Saviar recovered quickly, cheeks hot with embarrassment. He should know better. Though Renshai never stooped to using blunted weapons, the Knights of Erythane considered them a normal and safe part of training. “Of course. I’m sorry. Stupid of me.” Reluctantly, he placed his regular sword on the rack and replaced it with the practice blade. “So, where did you want to spar? Field, forest, or indoors?”

  Verdondi looked over the practice area, head bobbing. “I’ve never fought in a castle before. Let’s try indoors, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” When Saviar had first arrived in Béarn, he had found himself intrigued by the castle facade training area as well. He headed toward it, Verdondi trailing.

  “So what’s an Erythanian doing in Béarn anyway?” the Northman asked as they walked. “You don’t seem old enough for the army.”

  Saviar gritted his teeth. Though larger than most Renshai his age, he apparently still appeared somewhat younger. Calistin had already fought in a few battles on the shoreline, but Saviar could not join him until he passed his tests of manhood. “My grandfather’s the captain of the Knights of Erythane, and my father’s a knight, too.”